The Fierce
by ChaoticReverie
Summary: Azog has his reasons...


**Smut for the sake of smut, basically. The idea got stuck in my head and I couldn't really think of how to work it into any of the other stories I have planned.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters created by J.R.R Tolkien, but the OC is mine. I am making no profit from this.**

Azog sat astride his warg overlooking the encampment, pale eyes scrutinizing this tribe of Men who had sided with their Dark Lord. Like most other Easterlings they held no love for the free folk, but that was where the similarities ended. Variags, Wainriders, Balchoth; all had served under him in the name of Sauron, but these nomads were an ilk all their own. They had no great empire, choosing instead to wander. Their range was vast, from the steppes of the Iron Hills to the sun-baked earth of Harad.

They were savage and ruthless, valuing strength and prowess in battle above all other things. They were feared even by other races in the Eastlands, for they feasted upon their enemies, adorning themselves with bones and blood. The Men to the North tamed herds of wild horses and the Men to the South mounted giant Mumakil. These people – the Men of Blood and Sand – rode immense black scorpions into battle.

This night – on the eve of their departure to Mordor – they feasted. The smell of strong spirits filled his nostrils, along with the scent of roasting man flesh. He liked these Easterlings... one in particular.

They called her the Huntress, for she was among their fiercest. Her skin was golden, her hair dark like soot. She did not look away from him when he caught her gaze, staring openly and with lust clouding her features.

"You have her eye," their chieftain said to him, "and the envy of many in our tribe. She does not show her favor often."

He dropped down from his warg, Orcs and Men alike parting as he passed, gazes equally wary. She was seated by the fire, a position of esteem among their warriors. When he approached she stood fluidly.

"Would you care for a drink, or perhaps you thirst for something else?" was her knowing remark, and she set aside her cup to trace the scars on his chest. Her nails left thin red lines on his pale skin, filed into deadly points. Her tongue was hot as she traced the marks she made, and he snarled, pulling her sharply against him so she could feel his rigid hardness.

Her palms slithered around the backs of his thighs, and she ground herself against him, moaning in abandon. Growling roughly he turned her away from him, shoving her forward onto the table she'd been seated at. She wore next to nothing already, so it was easy for him to push her skirt up, move his loincloth aside, and slide into her within a handful of seconds. She was small, as most females of her kind were, but she was wet and ready for him. If she was in pain she did not show it, and he pressed forward until he'd filled her completely, gripping her slim waist and beginning a hard pace.

All around them, shouts of excitement rang into the night, their display causing a frenzy. Soon the sounds of her cries and his growls were matched by others, the scent of sex filling his head. He finished with a defeating roar, pinning her beneath him as he swelled and spilled his seed.

After that night they fucked often and wildly. When they stopped to wash he would fuck her. When they stopped to eat he would fuck her. When they stopped to make camp she would dance for him by the fire, and he would fuck her until she screamed. Some nights she would crawl astride his lap and ride him, staring down at him with golden eyes rimmed in kohl. Her hands were never idle, tracing the scars across his torso she seemed to adore or cupping the weight of her round breasts and plucking at her nipples. He'd never met a female with a lust so insatiable.

Her appetite for blood was just as strong, he'd come to find. He witnessed her cut off a captive's cock simply for staring too long. She'd even bitten out the throat of one of her own for trying to force himself on her. She acted more Orc than Man… perhaps that was why he was so taken with her. He'd fucked his fair share of human women before, even the odd elf to prove a point, but none of them matched her in fierceness.

Even in death, she had not disappointed. He recalled her piercing shriek as a soldier's knife penetrated her ribs, her eyes furious as she ripped the offending weapon out of her side and used it to gut her assailant. She had looked to him then, dropping to a knee and smiling seductively.

"Fuck me one last time," she rasped, blood dripping down her chin.

And he had, just as furiously as the first time he'd taken her, watching as pleasure etched itself into her lovely, exotic features. She tipped her head back, trembling as she came, and he followed shortly after. By the time his wits had returned to him she was taking her final, shuddering breaths.

"Rip them all to pieces," she whispered, and the light faded from her eyes.

And he had, his bloodlust unquenchable as he plowed through swarms of dwarves, making chase when they began to retreat. Many of them escaped, but on that day he made a vow to himself and to the Huntress, that he would crush the ones who'd taken her from him. He would chase them to the ends of Middle Earth; make it his life's quest to end the line of Durin.

 **In all honesty, I threw this bit onto the end just to make it seem remotely relevant. Hope you enjoyed it.**


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